


Maester Severus

by psyche_girl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 18:29:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16392890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyche_girl/pseuds/psyche_girl
Summary: These are the things everybody knows about Maester Severus Snape: that he's a turncloak and a traitor, that he's lowborn, and bad-tempered, and terribly, terribly gifted.GOT AU where Peytr Baelish has been replaced by Severus Snape. Because Sansa deserved better - and, frankly, Snape did too.





	Maester Severus

Sansa first meets the Maester when she goes to escort her father to the Small Council after lunch. She gives the room her very best curtsy, and Queen Cersei smiles at her, and so does Father, and two of the three strange men – and then the third man, dressed in dour black robes, greasy-haired, with a long ugly face and a hooked nose, goes white-faced as he knocks over his goblet, crying out, “Cat?”

Father scowls at him, involuntarily, the kind of twitch his face used to make when Jon's mother, or King Aerys, or the War, were mentioned, and hurries to come put his arm around Sansa. There is the ice of the North in his voice and face when he turns to the strange man.

“No, Maester – this is my eldest daughter, Sansa.”

“I can see that,” says the Maester. Now that he's composed himself, and is no longer flinging wine goblets all over the place, she can see his chain of office clearly. His eyes rake over her face, and his expression twists into a bitter, contemptuous scowl, fiercer and darker than any she's seen since the Hound.

“She has her father's eyes,” he sneers.

Somehow, he makes this sound like an insult.

And with that, Sansa seems to have been dismissed from both the Maester's notice and the conversation, which turns to matters of state and the mess Lord Tyrell, the portly Master of Coin, has apparently been making of the nation's coffers.  But her father shoots Maester Severus sideways looks as he gestures Sansa out the door, and she knows that he, at least, has not forgotten.

 

“Father?” Sansa ventures, timidly, at dinner later. Their father is splitting his attention tonight between her and Arya and his scrolls and papers – he seems to be doing that more often, since they left Winterfell, and his face looks worn and tired. “Why don't you like Maester Severus?”

The careworn expression on her father's face deepens, and he looks from her to Arya with troubled eyes.

“The Maester is not an honorable man, sweetling. He supported the Targaryens during the war, did you know?”

Sansa nods dutifully, even though she _hadn't_ known.

“He turned his cloak near the end. No one knows why. Came galloping out of the Red Keep, with a passel of secret maps and information on the escape routes and battle plans and hiding places of the King-and-Queen-that-was, lists of men both loyal and not. He was granted pardons by Tywin Lannister and by Robert himself for his trouble, and he's served the Crown faithfully ever since, and Jon Arryn always swore he was trustworthy, but...it is never wise to trust a turncloak.” Sansa and Arya nod together. They have all heard such words from her father before now. Indeed, it is common wisdom.

Her father's eyes flicker over Arya, and then settle upon Sansa for a long moment, and he seems to hesitate before continuing. “He knew your mother once. Back when she was a child, and he was a fosterling at Riverrun. It...the way matters ended there did not reflect particularly well upon him. Indeed, if Hoster Tully had been less generous, or Severus Snape less skilled with herbs – or less in favor with the _Targaryens_ ” her father spits the word, “I believe he would have lost his life for the scandal. Many think he ought to have lost his life, regardless, after…” Father hesitates again, “Perhaps that is not a tale for young ears.”

“I am not young, father!” Sansa objects. “I am three-and-ten already!” She is aware even as she says the words that they are childish – though Arya's pleas, that she is a whole _nine_ years old, sound more childish by far – but she _must_ know. A story about her mother! And her Grandfather Tully! And a wicked maester, and a mad King - it is just like one of Old Nan's stories.

Father just laughs at them and leans forward to ruffle Arya's hair, which makes both sisters angry. Arya is still squalling about how grown-up and _nine_ she is, and Sansa knows that Father has favored Arya ever since that mess with their wolves.

“No, my good girls, that story is not for young ladies. It is not seemly to gossip about old affairs that are over and done with, nor to stir up bad blood. Perhaps I should not have told you anything, but-” He hesitates again, some of the lines that vanished with his laughter settle back over his face. “I wish for you both to be on your guard around Maester Severus.”

Sansa nods dutifully, and Arya looks bored by the whole conversation, and that appears to be the end of that.

But she doesn't forget about the Maester and her mother, or about the secret story that her father was so unwilling to tell.

 

Her father's opinion of Maester Severus, unlike his opinion of the Lannisters, appears to be one that is shared widely among the nobles of the capital. Indeed, the only person with a reputation more awful than the maester's is Ser Jaime Lannister. Sansa hears countless times about how the maester is not to be trusted, until she wonders why the Queen and King would let someone so untrustworthy have responsibility for the training of their children, or indeed allow him to reside in the Red Keep at all.

She never receives anything like a satisfactory explanation for this, even after she brings her worries to the Queen, one bright afternoon as they sit together stitching. Well, Sansa is stitching – the Queen is merely sitting in state beside silver pitchers filled with wine and flowers, all her ladies arrayed around her like a picture.

Sansa hopes she will be half as pretty, when she is Queen.

“He is terribly gifted,” Cersei says in response to Sansa's question. “ _Terribly_ gifted. He cured Princess Elia completely, when everybody said she'd spend her whole life ill. Not that it mattered in the end, of course.”

The whole roomful of ladies nods. These are the things everybody knows about Maester Severus: that he's a turncloak and a traitor, that he's lowborn, and bad-tempered, and terribly, terribly gifted.

“Well, he'd have to be, wouldn't he, to keep his head after what happened with the Tully girls-” There is a round of shushing noises, here, and the whole room spends a moment pretending not to look sideways at Sansa, and shooting reproachful glares at the lady who spoke out of turn.

Sansa keeps her head down, and focuses on her embroidery. Ladies do not gossip, and it would be indelicate of her to ask questions. But she resolves to keep her ears open.

Sooner or later, she _will_ discover the truth.

 

She does not discover more about the curious history between her mother and Maester Severus, but she does discover something else.

“-why old Snape hates the King. He's wanted to be Grand Maester for years,” Sansa hears a man's voice saying one morning, when she rounds the corner, and almost against her will she feels her feet grind to a halt as she listens. “It's an open secret.”

“There's no denying the man's more than qualified. If it weren't for his well-known indiscretions-”

A third voice snorts. “Indiscretions? Compared to _Pycelle's_ indiscretions, you mean? Everyone knows the only reason the old coot's kept the position is because he spends his days wasting Lord Tywin’s money on Varys's whores. If there was ever a man who was _more_ of an honorless Lannister lick-arse than Severus-”

“All I'm saying is, sooner or later, even our original Lannister lick-arse is going to get sick of babysitting the Queen's royal brats, and when that happens and Pycelle's found dead in his bed, it won't be old age that killed him.”

“And _I_ say if Maester Severus wanted to poison him, Pycelle would've been dead years ago. The man's not shy about using herbcraft to get rid of his _problems_.”

The men exchange another of those dark looks, the ones Sansa is beginning to learn have something to do with the mystery surrounding her mother.

“That was when Jon Arryn was still Hand, though,” objects the first speaker. He's wearing Baratheon black, but quartered with a color Sansa doesn't recognize. The other two are in guards' armor. “Everyone knows Arryn'd never raise up Severus to high office, not after what happened with his wife. But now that Ned Stark's down from the North-”

“Yeah, and how'd that happen, anyway? Awful suspicious, Arryn’s so-called illness-”

They're talking about poison, Sansa realizes, heart beating fast with shock. They're saying Maester Severus poisoned the Hand. That he-

A hand comes down on Sansa's shoulder.

She barely stops herself from shrieking. The shock (and the guilt, because she knows she oughtn't be eavesdropping) is enough to set her trembling. Then she sees who's caught her, and starts trembling harder.

“Listening at keyholes, are we?”

“I- I wasn't- I didn't mean-”

“Relax, Little Bird,” says the Hound, letting go of her arm and leaning a massive shoulder against the wall beside her. The guardsmen startle at the clang of his armor, and start to wander off, fortunately without looking in Sansa’s direction. “Not like any of those cunts have anything new to say. Not about nasty old Snivellus.” He glances sideways at Sansa, eyes running over her body and lingering on her hair, and his scowl darkens. “You ought to stay away from him, though, if you know what's good for you.”

“Why?”

The Hound grunts. “He doesn't like to drink. Don't like to fuck. Doesn't seem to like much of anything, really. You can't trust a man like that.”

This is a new answer.

“Do you think it's true?” At Ser Sandor’s confused face, she realizes he might not have heard the men talking, and clarifies: “that Maester Severus poisoned Jon Arryn.”

The Hound snorts. “No idea. And if you're smart, you'll have no idea about it either. It's dangerous for pretty little birds to look too closely into the deaths of Great Lords. If he did, it’ll be a matter for your father to settle, and I wish him joy of it.”

 

 Sansa next sees the Maester after her father's injury, when she and Arya are sent to take lessons with the royal children.

Maester Severus spends a full half-candle arguing with the guards about this decision, while the poor Prince and Princess wait. Only after it has been made very, very clear to all parties that yes, the Queen really _does_ insist he has to teach the Stark girls, does he round on them, with a glare as poisonous as wildfire. 

“You really do look _very_ like your mother.” There is something nasty and mean and mocking in his face, something Sansa recognizes from talking with the Hound – but the Hound's nastiness is only ever turned inward, and Maester Severus's nastiness seems to be directed at her and him alike.

“I know. You have said, my Lord,” Sansa ventures, timidly. “Everyone has said.”

“Yes. Very like your mother. But you have-”

“My father's eyes. Yes, I know.”

Why, Sansa wonders, _why_ does he hate her father so? It cannot be simply because he loved her mother once.

Maester Severus stares at her for another long moment, then turns aside. “Well. We shall have to see if you are as idiotic as the rest of your sorry Stark relations. Come, girl!” He snaps, when she doesn't move, and she and Arya both jump. “Show me what you know of figures.”

 

Lessons with Maester Severus are not pleasant. He is harsh with Sansa – cruel, she thinks – and merciless in finding fault. Sansa wonders why everybody worries so much about the Maester becoming overly friendly – he does not seem to like her at _all_. He's far, far nicer to Arya. And every time she makes an error, he snaps and rails against her for her stupid Stark blood.

“You're just mad because he's taking time away from stupid embroidery,” Arya sneers, with an expression very much like the Maester's. “And because he's teaching us _useful_ things for once. And because he likes me best.”

“Shut up,” Sansa sniffles, and turns back to her sewing with a determined air.

 

It’s true though: the Maester _does_ favor Arya. And Myrcella, and Tommen, and Joffrey. And, really, just about everyone who is not Sansa Stark.

Sometimes, after lessons are done, he even answers Arya’s questions.

“Why are you called Severus?”

“My mother was very devout. She hoped I would become a Septon.”

“But you didn't.”

“No. I ran away instead.”

“To the Citadel?”

“To Lord Hoster Tully, at first, because he was great friends with my mother’s family, and I believed my liege lord would not turn me aside. I went to the Citadel later.”

If he’s Father’s age, he must have been studying for a terribly short time, to be Maester already by the end of the war. Sansa is impressed despite herself.

“Why did you want to be a Maester?” Arya demands.

“I needed a livelihood, since I could not remain in the Riverlands. And I wanted-” He pauses, and a muscle jumps in the hollow of his throat, “-I wished to avoid making another mistake.”

_Another_ mistake, Sansa notices he said.

“ _I_ would've become a Knight,” Arya announces. “Or gone to join the Night’s Watch. Maesters are boring.”

“The Crown Prince expressed similar sentiments yesterday, I believe,” observes the Maester dryly. “Immediately after he failed to complete his figures. As you have finished yours correctly, however, I see no reason not to let you continue to waste your brains on foolish sword-swinging. Run along.”

Arya is out the door in a shot, beaming. Sansa scowls. A comment like that from _her_ would've earned at least a half-candle of lecturing on dumb useless barbarian Stark blood, but of course Maester Severus _would_ compliment Arya. It is so vexing.

“While _your_ figures, I see, are completely incorrect – as well as unnecessarily flowery. Tell me, Lady Sansa, do you imagine pretty calligraphy will distract from your ignorance? Do you think you will be allowed to get away with being completely useless forever?”

Weeks of this. _Weeks_ of calling her stupid, and thick-headed, and useless, and favoring Myrcella and Tommen and Arya all the _time_. Sansa feels like she wants to cry.

“Father says you're not to be alone with me,” she hears herself blurt out instead.

Maester Severus looks shocked. Then he goes nastily grey-faced for a moment, and horror floods his eyes.

“You are a _child!_ ”

Sansa's frown is automatic. “I'm not! I'm three-and-ten, I'm betrothed to the Prince and I'm to be wed to him as soon as I'm flowered.”

The Maester's expression, if possible, turns even uglier, and he whirls away from her, pacing for a long minute.

“Had I any skill at swordplay,” he says at last, coming to a halt facing her across the table, “I would challenge your damn Father to duel with crossed blades at dawn. The man should not be trusted with children.”

This makes Sansa so angry, she can feel her whole face turn hot.

“Of _course_ Father should be trusted! Father's _good_! And kind, and noble, and the greatest Lord in the seven Kingdoms, right after King Robert and _my_ beloved Joffrey! And Joffrey doesn't like you either, and he's the prince, so he must be right! You’re- you’re nothing but a lowborn turncloak, what do you know about anything?”

“Praise the Seven,” he drawls, staring down at her with cool scorn that makes her hands curl up in fists, “it's like listening to your uncle in miniature. Tell me, girl, has _anyone_ in your entire foolish, pampered, precious life ever taught you to _think?!_ ”

“You awful, awful man. You're always so horrid, you're worse than the _Hound_. _He_ at least is nice to me-”

“The Hound is nice to you? And when, exactly, have you been talking to the Hound?” Maester Severus looks, very briefly, even more appalled.

“He told me about you,” Sansa spits. “He said you- you don’t like anything. He called you Snivellus.”

Instead of getting angry, though, Maester Severus looks amused.

“He would. Tell me, girl, does your father know the Hound’s been talking to you?”

“Father wouldn’t care, anyway,” Sansa mutters. “He never pays attention to me anymore. He spends all his time with- with letters, and Arya and her dancing, and that dumb moldy old Lineages of the Great Houses-”

“With _what_?” When she doesn’t answer quickly enough, he seizes her by the shoulders and shakes her. “What book is your father reading?”

“Th- the Histories and Lineages of the Great Houses of Westeros-”

He whirls out of the room without looking at her.

Three days later, her father is arrested for treason.

 

The Queen promised her father was to be pardoned. She _promised_.

Sansa cries until she cannot see. Until she cannot speak.

Father is dead. Father is dead, and Arya is missing, and-

She doesn’t remember much of the next few days.

 

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Maester Severus sneers as he passes Sansa in the hall.

It has been several weeks since she has spoken to the Maester. After her flowering, her schoolroom lessons had stopped. She had been grateful for the reprieve, even if it meant seeing Tommen and Myrcella less – everything these days is so horrible, the absence of one more person who hates her is something to be cherished – but, oddly, confronted by the Maester now, Sansa finds she does not mind his sneers and scorn as much as she once did.

Maester Severus, after all, hated her long before Joffrey decided she had traitor’s blood. His scorn is honest. And honesty in the Capitol is hard to come by.

“Congratulations, Maester?” Sansa asks politely. She finds it easier to be polite to him – chirping, the Hound would say – after so many weeks of being polite to Joffrey.

Maester Severus likes Joffrey, she remembers, and feels her ever-present resentment burn a little hotter.

“On your wedding,” he sneers. “You must be so proud, to be joining the Lannister family at last.”

“My wedding?” Sansa repeats, confused. “But Joffrey has another bride now, he- I-”

She stops, because ice is suddenly flooding her veins, stopping her breath – and beneath the ice, a horrible thought is rising.

Lannister. He said Lannister.

But Joffrey is not a Lannister, he’s a Baratheon. And Jaime Lannister is on the Kingsguard. And the only other Lannister left unmarried is-

“I must give my condolences to your fiancé, of course,” the Maester sneers, “on getting a fool and a coward for a wife. Then again, maybe he won’t care. Breeding Northern heirs is about all you’re good for, after all, now your treasonous brother has refused to trade you for Ser Jaime. Why else would Lord Tywin match a maid like you to his child, even if that child _is_ a wicked little Imp.”

In that moment, Sansa hates the Maester more than she’s hated anyone – with a hot, burning, killing kind of hatred. She didn’t even hate Joffrey this much, when she went to shove him over the wall. Joffrey fills her with slow hate, ice-hate – she wants to kill Joffrey, but she wants to _hurt_ Maester Severus.

But before she can open her mouth to answer, he’s already swept past her, his shoulder knocking the breath from her and slamming her hard against the wall.

Sansa doesn’t bother straightening up after he is gone. Instead, she leans against the cool red stone of the Keep, and closes her eyes, and breathes until she thinks she can speak without crying.

When she opens her eyes, she sees something glitter on the flagstones.

She stoops to pick it up, curious – it is a little bottle, fashioned from crystal and full of a strange thick purple liquid that shines like amethysts in the torchlight. It must have fallen from Maester Severus’s robes, Sansa decides, for she can think of no one else who would walk about the Red Keep with potions in their pockets, and indeed, as she turns it, she can see a small label written in the maester’s messy, spiky writing.

The bottle is labeled _Poison - Strangler_.

 

Sansa doesn’t use the poison.

She thinks about it – all night and morning, she feels the bottle burn like a brand under her robes. She thinks about Father, dead, about the Kingsguards’ swords and traitor’s blood and how the Lannisters have lied, lied, lied to her. She thinks about it through Cersei’s false smiles and simpering, through the farce of a wedding ceremony and Joffrey’s cruelty and the sight of Tyrion’s horrible purpling cock as he threatens to _fuck_ her. She thinks, for one awful moment, about using the poison on _herself_ as she lies awake in Tyrion’s bed, afraid to move unless she wakes him and he changes his mind, and then she wonders what Mother or Father or Robb would say if they knew she was thinking such a thing – and then she remembers that Mother and Father and Robb are dead, and has to stuff her pillow in her mouth to hide her sobs.

But she doesn’t use it. And in the morning, when she wakes to find herself unmolested, she finds that she is glad.

Because now, she can use the poison not on Tyrion, but Joffrey.


End file.
